Today is a BAD day for me.

I just scalded my arm by some stupid pot that was refilled with 95 Degrees water. Like, FFFFFFFFUCK! (Yes, like how Dwyane from Little Miss Sunshine says it.) And my laptop went crazy in the morning, blacking out on me, and then the screen suddenly shrunk.

Scared the tits outta me since my laptop is less than a week old.

On the other hand, I just received a letter from Shaun darlin'. I got my sketch pad + pencils. Am going to pick up sketching.

HAW HAW, right. I bet all of you are already laughing. But really, I wanna start drawing. Gotta start from scratch and prolly start drawing a pencil. Guess Miami Ink spurred that side of me to pick up a pencil and start drawing. But as you know, I can't draw for nuts. Still, I'm going to pick up points from a friend of mine, who's as interested in art as me. All the time in MSN, we talk nothing else but art. :D

I'm a right-brained too! Funny cus I never regarded myself as someone who's related to the creative field. Yes, I do appreciate art, but don't have the talent to draw + design to save my life. So if some kidnappers were to kidnap me and the only way to save myself is to draw how my dad looks like, I'd prolly die.

Guess what? News of the day: I'm listening to Fish Leong. Ya la ya la. Laugh your balls off. She's one of the really few Chinese artistes that I like to listen to.

And you know, Melvin told me not to force myself to speak Chinese because I speak English all the time and it seems like I'm faking it so that I can communicate with him. But hey, China is coming up in the industry. Have gotta do something about my mother tongue. SO YES, FISH LEONG, I'M INTO YOUR SONGS!

My relationship with Jay Chou is alright too! But I can't stand it when he starts his stupid raps. If you can sing, sing la. Rap for what. People like Eminem can't sing ballads thats why he's rappin'. But, I respect Eminem. His lyrics are funny to some extent, stupid to another extent. All in all, he's talented.

So shut up if you hear me listening to Fish Leong + Jay Chou. Correct me if I pronounce any word wrongly.

Oh yes, my laptop is fine now. It really drove me crazy today. This stupid cli.exe window kept popping out. But I downloaded some .Net Microsoft thing, so I guess, all's fine now! (For now.)


Man, I'm stoked to officially start school. Get to know more people and am on the road to pursue my interest after graduating with a diploma.

Auntie was telling me that I should not be sidetracking because my course is important so that I can get a degree in MC. She was telling me that the market is really competitive and that they wouldn't give a shit about you unless you have Masters or PHD.

So yeah, I really need her to keep me on track. She's the only one in my paternal family side that genuinely cares for me and my future. The rest are basically asking me my results so that can compare their results to their kids and make me look like a idiot because, 'we can't study and all we can do is just play computer games because we are good in that'.

Too bad, if you haven't read, gaming is already a career option in this industry. So, in your face. P.S Mind your own business too while you're at that.

My family's filled with conspiracies and lies. Sigh. Thank god I'm not a part of that. But I've always wanted to do something to someone which I'll never fulfill for the sake of RESPECT.


That aside, there's this fantastic article that is really intriguing. It pulls you by the collar and screams: READ ME! I swear, this is byfar, the best short article I've ever read for 2007. Its a tad wordy. But its so DAMN GOOD.

Take a look:

A Sordid Affair By Elyse

I take off my coat, but the rack is missing. I wonder where it went, but not long enough to make a difference. I throw a lengthy pile of soggy material formerly known as my trench coat onto the back of our couch. The heels I’m wearing have been digging into the back of my feet all day long, so I groan in relief as I slip those sonsofbitches off. I’ve been at work, slaving for The Man, and now is my time to relax. Now is my time to slave for My Man.
My sister hates it when I say things like that. She’s turning into a real feminazi. If she was born thirty years earlier, she’d be burning her bra. She says I allow you to control me, and I retort with the ever-so-witty, “Why not?” You should see her face. What a dame!
I turn the television on. You’ve turned the channel to public access again. I hate it when you do that. I always end up having to listen to a second of that blathering racist… you know the guy? My intelligence is insulted because you like to watch, point, and laugh at people with too much time on their hands and not enough brains in their heads. And now he’s talking about the invasion of “them.” He says it as though we’re being invaded by Martians. I laugh, just like you would, but I do it out of sheer frustration. Why do people have to inbreed? If we’re being invaded by anything, it’s stupidity.
I’m cold and I’m hungry. I hate it when that happens. Work has a strange way of screwing everything inside your body. As if my body had room to screw itself more. The doctor says I have to watch what I do. He says my blood pressure is too high. With a man like you, no wonder! Where are you? I don’t remember if I saw your car on the street, and I’m too tired to get up and look. You’ll come down from the bedroom if you’re here. You’ll call if you’re not. I shouldn’t worry.
I say fuck it. I’m hungry anyways, so I get off the couch and make my way to the kitchen. I have a perfect view of the street from there, and I can get a burrito to sweeten the deal. I need to stop by the thermostat to turn the heat up anyways. It’s almost down to 60. Good God! How could you live like that? Are you taking a nap under a dead polar bear?
I have to remind myself that I haven’t taken a look outside yet. You could very well still be at work, and it’s not fair to blame you. You work hard to pay the bills; the least I can do is give you a break. If you want it down to 40, I should support you. Plus, they say body heat is the best way to warm up. I’m all for generating a little heat with you, honey.
The kitchen is twice as cold as the rest of the house. I walk over to the freezer and brace myself for a cold blast. It’s not as bad as I expected, but it surely didn’t make my day any brighter. I grab a burrito out of the plastic bag and throw it on a plate. The microwave beckons me, and I obey like a good girl. Thirty seconds on one side. Flip, rotate, and repeat.
The kitchen window is fogged. I pull down the sleeve of my blouse, but I think twice. It’s expensive. I grab a kitchen towel instead and wipe clear a spot to look from. I peer out into the cold, dark street. There she is. Your pride and joy, your 1965 Impala. Cherry red. Leather interior. You’re home.
The microwave beeps at me. I open it up and follow the instructions of Proper Burrito Position. It feels a little cold to me, so I put it on for a minute longer than directed. I figure I can run upstairs with my extra time. I’ve missed you. Just seeing you, validating your existence, will hold me over.
I take the back stairs. The front stairs always creak, and I’d hate to wake you up unless I really had to. I’m sure your day was long. Those assholes at work never let you be. One day, I’ll go in there with brass knuckles and give them permanent pink slips for you, baby.
I reach the bottom of the stairs. My hearts skips a beat. The coat rack is waiting for me, turned on its side. Why is it here? I wonder its motives. It’s very sneaky, that coat rack. It could be trying to give me a scare. “Good job, coat rack. You got me,” I laugh uncomfortably.
I pick it up and put it to the side. It scares me less when it’s standing on its feet. I’m in control again. Everything’s going to be okay.
I make my way upstairs, being both careful and quiet. If this turns out to be nothing, I don’t want you to laugh at me. I just want you to hold me. I just want you to smile and make a joke about how my ass looks in this skirt. Yeah. That’d be just fine.
I watch my feet as I walk up the stairs. I’m afraid if I look up I’ll see something undesirable. I stop about six steps up. Something has caught my eye, but I can’t be quite sure what…
“Jesus!” I yell. I had picked it up, felt its texture, saw its color before I realized what I had in my hand. It was a toenail, your toenail. It had been ripped off, fresh blood still coated bits of it. The seventh stair has drops of red adorning the wood. “Nothing to worry about, you nutcase,” I say to myself. You just tripped coming up the stairs, didn’t you? I bet you cursed like a sailor. That’s my boy.
I walk further up the stairs. I see your fingerprints on the wall, a maroon mark of Not Good. I pretend like I’m not worried. I pretend like I know what’s happening. You tripped. Your toenail came off. You started to bleed. You examined your injury. You spread the blood when you went upstairs to find something to patch yourself up. Why the hell should I be so anxious? I think I will tell you this story. I’ll tell you how I nearly fainted. You’ll laugh at me, but I’ll laugh with you.
I reach the top of the stairs. No signs of life – no noise, no toenails, no blood. So far, so good. The microwave beeps from somewhere long ago. It seems so far away. I reach the entrance to our bedroom. I open the door.
There you are, you beautiful man. Your sandy blonde hair is rested comfortably on your pillow, and I wonder why the hell I have to be such a pansy. You are covered over nicely with our comforter, and I can see it move up and down with your breath. I put my hand on my chest and sigh in relief.
I didn’t want to wake you up, but I’ve just gone through hell in two minutes. I need to see your face, and I need to hear your reassurances. I travel quietly; I want to wake you up gently. Your breathing quickens. You must be dreaming.
Only you aren’t, are you? No, you’re awake. You look at me with wide eyes and you try to scream. You can’t; there’s duct tape covering that confident mouth of yours. You squirm. Duct tape is everywhere – your hands, your feet, your neck – holding you to our bed. That’s the bed we first made love in. You proposed to me in that bed. It’s tainted. It’s violated.
A hand grips my neck. It feels like it’s made of steel, and I feel like a twig in this hard man’s clutch. He throws me down on the ground and puts his leg on my chest. I can’t move. He’s crushing me.
A second man comes out of thin air, much like the first, only this one is smaller and has a gun. He holds it to my head and laughs. He tells me what he’s going to do to me, but he looks at you as he speaks. The vile, disgusting words that come out of his mouth anger you, but you can’t do anything.
They begin to do their dirty work. God, how it hurts! You watch. You try to close your eyes, but my screams of pain are like knives to your heart. I can see it in your eyes. Those beautiful green eyes.
The first man can’t do it. He can’t get it up. He’s a big fellow, a country boy, and he’s trying hard to work things out. The second man yells at him to move over; he wants another go. The good ol’ boy lets out a bear-like howl and stares his accomplice down. The only thing I can think of is how primitive our attackers are, and how I had just made fun of people like them not ten minutes ago. Is this my punishment?
The second man lets out an insidious laugh. He waves the gun in the air. He says he’s in control, and I’m inclined to agree. He says the country boy might be able to get it up if he was with you instead. I nearly scream at the thought. I can take it just fine, but you…
The country boy is furious. He lands a hard blow on the side of the second man’s face, and the little worm goes down before he can even think. The country boy grabs the gun, but he’s temporarily stunned by his victory. The second man goes for the knees, dropping the 250 pound boy like a ton of bricks. The gun lands next to me.
I pick it up. It’s heavier than I ever thought a gun could be, but I try to put that out of my head. I tell myself to focus. If I can shoot them, I can save us both. I’m too late. Country boy is slow of mind, but he’s quick of feet. His hands grip mine and try to pressure them off the gun. It’s working. I wrap my finger around the trigger. If I can get one shot off, I might just be able to hit him.
The gun goes off. It’s loud, and it’s got a hell of a kick. I smile, sure of my triumph, until I see the results of my shot. The bullet, that tiny piece of metal, had gone right into one of those beautiful green eyes. Reds, pinks, and grays - the brains I fell in love with - spill out onto your pillow.
The country boy is stunned for a moment, but he regains composure before I do. He grabs the gun and tells me to get on my knees. The fight leaves me, and I comply. He points the gun at my head. He tells me he’s the one in control now. He says I pulled a stupid move, and now I have to pay.
But that didn’t exactly go according to plan, did it, country boy?
The second man had dashed out of the room during our struggle. That cunning bastard had gone into our kitchen and grabbed a knife out of the butcher block before we had even noticed he’d left. I suppose that’s what made him the brains of the operation.
He slides the knife into the back of ol’ country boy’s ankle. He goes down again, but he won’t be getting up this time. The knife finishes its work, planted like a grotesque flower, into the middle of country boy’s enormous chest. Problem solved.
Only, that skinny bastard had one more problem on his hands, and I was going to resolve it myself. During his ambush, he failed to notice the gun. The country boy had dropped it, and I, being such a cunning bastard myself, had grabbed it before impact. He doesn’t even have a chance to blink before I shoot him in the head. I’m a hell of a shot, it turns out.
And here we are. Our assailants are dead, but so are you. I really fucked everything up, didn’t I? I should’ve called the police when I saw the coat rack. I should’ve put two and two together, but I didn’t. And that’s it.
It takes a split second, but I make my decision. I put the gun to my head, and I squeeze the trigger. I love you, darling.